


Alive in Spirit (One as Many)

by devilinthedetails



Series: The Voice [6]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Bazhir, Blood Magic, Death, Gen, Memory, Ritual, Voice, rite, tradition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Jonathan becomes Voice and the end of things comes for Ali.
Series: The Voice [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881097
Kudos: 5





	Alive in Spirit (One as Many)

Alive in Spirit (One as Many) 

The death Ali had foreseen for himself so many years ago when he became Voice was approaching. Ali could feel and hear it racing toward him like hoofbeats across the desert. 

He stood at the summit of a hill with the northern prince separated only by the leaping red-orange flames of a fire. The northern prince cut a paler figure than ever dressed in pure white and finished with a ritual fast that left him susceptible to visions. When the body was frailest, the spirit influences were most powerful. That was the balance of Bazhir teaching and tradition. 

The shamans and the rest of the Bazhir were apart from them—not permitted to interfere to aid him or Jonathan until the rite was done. That was Bazhir teaching and tradition too. 

Ali raised his hands, invoking the spirit, the tradition, the memory of his people. He spoke the ancient language of the Bazhir from before their sailing the Inland Sea. Many would call it a dead language, but it was still alive and dancing on his tongue. A language that had never been written but had been passed as a spoken legacy from Voice to Voice in an unbroken chain in which Ali was the last and Jonathan was soon to be next. 

Ali’s chant drew to a close in the stronger wind stirred by his summoning. 

“Jonathan of Conte.” Ali spoke Jonathan’s full names, because full names had power among the Bazhir. His voice was soft, but he knew that it would echo through the agitated air to every Bazhir. Every Bazhir would hear what was spoken by fire tonight. “You come, a northern stranger, seeking to be one with the Bazhir. For what reason should we permit you, the son of the Tortallan king, to enter this most holy circle of our people?” 

The question was not a part of the sacred ritual. Ali saw the shock and the betrayal as the question registered on the northern prince’s face. He didn’t understand people enough to realize that Ali had done him a favor—an ally asking a question on many Bazhir tongues, so that his enemies and doubters could not pose it later as it had already been answered—but once he was Voice he would. 

A blue-white light that could have dazzled the stars in the sky shone as Jonathan replied in a manner that made it clear he had recovered from his shock. “Because I know and honor your history, and I know and honor your laws. Because I never wish to see the Bazhir hunted and slain by our warriors, even as I never wish to see our warriors hunted and slain by the Bazhir. Because only together will your people and mine become great. Because I want to know the why of men and women.” 

Ali was silent for a long moment, letting the gravity of the words—the determination and the staggering ambition behind them—sweep over the Bazhir carried on the breath of the wind. 

Then he cried the ritual words of power: “As the gods will it, so mote it be!” 

With his dagger, he slashed open a great gash in his right forearm, and the cut below was mirrored above, as a thunderclap tore through the heavens, rocking the ground beneath their feet. Jonathan also made a slice on his forearm that reflected Ali’s. The cuts were how their blood and their spirits would merge and flow together. How the two of them would become one in body and soul. How, through him, Jonathan would become Voice and one with the many Bazhir, the next link in a chain that bound together uncountable generations of Bazhir. 

“Two as one.” Ali managed to rasp out the ritual words as he and Jonathan grasped hands over the fire, their combined blood cackling as it fell into the hungry flames. 

“Two as one,” Jonathan repeated, and Ali knew because they were one in blood and spirit that he was slipping into a trance. A trance in which Ali could pass along the timeless history and wisdom of the Bazhir. 

“Two as one and many.” As soon as he spoke, Ali could hear the words of a thousand Bazhir screaming to be acknowledged and understood in Jonathan’s mind. That was the ultimate test. Whether the northern prince could hear all those competing voices screaming inside him and not collapse into insanity. 

“Two as one and many.” The ritual answer was torn from Jonathan’s lips. Ali could feel and hear that through their bond of blood and spirit. 

“One as many!” Ali’s bones ached with the effort required to shout this final proclamation to all the assembled Bazhir. 

“One as many!” Through tremendous pain impossible to express, his successor called out the last words of the rite, and Ali fell to the ground. 

He had passed all his visions of the future and memories of the past onto the northern prince that was now the Voice of the Tribes. His body was a hollow husk. He was dead now, alive only in the soul and memory of his successor like every Voice that had passed before him. It was the end of his life, but it wasn’t the end of all things for the Bazhir, and as long as the Bazhir endured in some form, so would he. 

He would survive through the Voice until time itself ended and the gods destroyed the world. Maybe even beyond that, but it wasn’t given to men or their spirits to glimpse or even imagine beyond that. He was spirit, memory, and stars above sand now. He must be content with that forever.


End file.
